


Toaster

by edy



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 16:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: If someone were to strap you in and measure your heart rate, it wouldn't be a surprise to anyone to find it'd be beating in time with his own heart. The notion is meant to be romantic, as is customary in romances, and you think itmightbe romantic if an uneven heart rate wasn't a sign of a serious health condition.





	Toaster

**Author's Note:**

> this is my second love letter to wade winston wilson.

He's shorter than you, but you still insist on being the little spoon. You tell yourself he likes holding you, that his arm shouldn't become numb because it doesn't feel anything, because  _it's a metal arm_ , because when you're doing everything you can to see if he'll maybe throw you across the room ever since you let slip you think it'd be hot to see him do, he doesn't say a fucking thing. And somehow that irritates you. You haven't tried explaining that to yourself yet. You don't even know where to begin.

You're in bed with him again, little spoon to his big, with his fists clutching at the front of your shirt— _as if_  you were going to leave him. But it's understandable; you keep squirming, trying to get comfortable. There's a metal arm beneath you, and you know it doesn't disturb him because  _it's a metal arm_ , but you're still being considerate. You don't move around a lot. You arch your back and press into him where it matters. He doesn't stab you in the dick. Things are working out.

He says, "Stop moving," because you're now bouncing on his arm, wanting to make a dent in it, wanting to see if it'll sound anything like crushing a pop can. You hit your funny bone a few times, but this pain is minimal compared to what you've put your body through in countless situations.

"Stop," he says, deadpan, fingers curling tighter around your t-shirt. It's one from your high school days, the logo of your favorite musical currently being crumbled in his hands. Yeah, it's old, but so are you and you can't bear to get rid of it—sentimental value and all that bullshit. You kissed your first boy wearing this shirt, and then fucked that same boy's father later that night when you were supposed to sneak out the upstairs window and ended up grabbing the dad's attention by slipping and falling and catching yourself on the sill of his window. You inhaled the exhale from the joint he was trying to hide from his wife and kid, and he stared at you with such forgetful eyes you can't remember the color of them and pulled you in and breathed his next exhale into your mouth, and you took it all because of course you can't pass up the first time you got high with and taken to bed by an older man.

You exhale now and say, "I think I have a thing for old guys. There's just something about them."

Your partner for eternity, as you've declared him enough times in so many different ways, he grips you tighter and goes, "Is it because looking in the mirror reminds you of their testicles?"

"You think I'm handsome."

"I'm aware."

Moving again, squirming more, and finally breaking free from his tight embrace and your attempts at denting his arm, you twist until you're facing him. His eyes are closed, arms limp, still playing the whole it's-time-to-sleep game when you and he both know going to sleep is unfathomable when it's nearly two in the morning and you've just woken from another nightmare.

He knows you have nightmares, but not the extent of them. He knows they terrify you and you don't like to admit it. He knows you're in need of some kind of grounding when you wake, and so he grabs you when he feels you wake with that violent start. Every time, you come to with a startled, "My heart stopped again!" because you read that once on Facebook, and as everybody knows, everything on Facebook is true. And every time, he pats your chest, right over your heart, and says, "Thanks for restarting it for me."

And you always— _always_ —whisper, "No, thank  _you_ ," and quietly begin your squirming.

With you turned toward him like this, staring him down, he doesn't open his eyes, no matter how hard you're burning holes into his skin. "You know those pictures of Jesus," you start, running the tip of your finger down the bridge of his nose, "where his eyes are closed, and you're supposed to focus really hard on his eyes, and then you look away, and then you look back at him, and his eyes are  _open_? It's not the same thing here."

"Is it because I'm not Jesus, or is it because what you just told me was complete garbage?"

"It was an optical illusion."

"Okay."

You launch yourself at him, arms slinging around his neck and sending him onto his back. The tumble isn't rough. He can take it. He wraps his own arms back around you, too, squeezing when you squeeze, and tilting his head to the side to accommodate you burrowing your face into the crook of his neck to say, "You're heavenly to me."

He doesn't tell you to stop. He doesn't tell you to go to sleep. He doesn't say anything at all. He kisses the curve of your ear. He holds you.

Right into his neck and the hickey you left him just last night, you say, "I don't want to screw this up." It's vague. That's purposeful. You want him to answer in any way he can.

He says, "You already did," and that breaks your heart.

Carefully, you ask, "How?"

Nonchalant, like this is nothing, he responds, "By telling me you were a top."

His neck is warm. Your forehead is warm. "I'm  _technically_  on top  _now_." You speak the truth, and yet, the disgruntled way he utters your name implies he believes the tongue in your mouth resides with lies and more lies. He moves underneath you, his own form of squirming, a gentle rock from side to side. Any harder, and he'll buck you off. He's trying to do just that, but gently…  _gently_.

"Have you  _seen_  me?" you go on. "My delicate hands, soft eyes, and supple ass were made to be on the bottom. I'm not made to top anybody."

"Shut up."

You return to his hickey. "Regardless of our sexual preferences—and we're definitely both versatile, so jot that down—I got you into bed, didn't I? Mission accomplished."

He squeezes you. He stops bucking. He rolls you two until you're beneath him, and he's the one to bury his face into your neck. Having him close like this, with his lips dragging across your skin, you can't deny it briefly makes you want to leap from bed and pitch yourself out the nearest window. You don't do that, though. You close your eyes.

Even when he's accustomed to being the big spoon, he doesn't snuggle in as close as you would when you take over as the big spoon. You always want to be close, like you might somehow become one with him, but he respects your space when it's time to sleep. You mocked him once, asked if that's how straight people slept—side by side, like two parallel lines. Brow furrowed and genuine hurt in his eyes, he looked at you and said, "I wouldn't know."

And you had hurt in your eyes, too, as you said, "Yeah, me neither."

It felt nice to have it out in the open. You convinced yourself you didn't need confirmation, but it felt nice to hear it.

When he lies down behind you to go to sleep, he makes sure to establish a connection. Most of the time, it's his arms around your torso. Sometimes he'll cup your hip. He's cupping your hip now, his thumb rubbing into the rough skin he claims  _isn't_  actually rough there. You let him. You find yourself mimicking his earlier motions, tilting your head, giving him room, allowing him to straddle your hips and kiss the dip beneath your ear. "I have seen you," he says, returning to the prior conversation. "Your delicate hands, soft eyes, and supple ass are some of your best features."

"Oh, stop, you're making me blush," you say, and let out a half-hearted giggle. With one of your delicate hands, you bat at his face and desperately attempt to remove him from your neck. He's biting down, though, and you wonder what it'll do to the mood if you continue shoving and make him rip out a part of your throat.

"I shouldn't have told you I was Team Edward," you remark to yourself, and he begins to gently suckle. You don't know if he heard you.

A parting kiss to your earlobe, your cheek, down to your chin, he whispers, "Are you okay?"

This is vague, too. Vague questions with equally as vague answers are the  _best_.

"I think so," you say, and he kisses you.

His lips are chapped, but it's two in the morning, and you gaze at him and realize you don't particularly care about the state of his lips when he's kissing you again. "Can you go back to sleep?" he asks, pushing himself onto all fours to hover above you. Placing his palm to your forehead, he gives the space between your eyebrows a swipe with his thumb. This is comforting somehow.

His hand is warm. Your forehead is warm.

"I can stay up with you if you can't," he adds.

"I think so," you repeat, even though you wouldn't mind watching the sun rise with him in a few hours. You can wake up then. You can be an early bird.

He reverts to his original position, sliding his arm beneath you and placing his hand on your hip. He wanders. You let him wander. You let him rest his hand over your heart and pull you in, not commenting on his stance on personal space forgotten.

"You  _love_  me," you exclaim, rolling onto your stomach with him crawling onto your back.

Again, he says, "I'm aware."

*

It's not like you can't sleep without him. You're well-rounded when it comes to curling up on the couch or the floor or the kitchen counter, if the mood's just right, and falling right asleep with your thumb in your mouth and a stuffed animal under your arm. There's a reason you don't do that  _as much_  anymore.

When he's in bed lying next to you, when he's in your life, for better or for worse, you  _function_  easier. It's not just sleep. It's your health. It's your sanity.

You need to keep yourself from getting sucked into your head.

*

"Well," you sigh, across from him at the kitchen table, "since we got  _that_  out of the way—"

"The toaster's smoking," he says.

"—and what a  _lovely_  exposition, if I do say so myself—"

"Toaster," he says.

"—but let's move on."

The fire alarm chirps into life, and you stretch your arms over your head and smile a smile that makes him smile. It doesn't curb him long; he's back on the toaster, saying something inaudible, saying something that accompanies the beeps from the fire alarm—which you shoot because of course you have to shoot it. He gives you a look with an eyebrow cocked, the eyebrow with the slit through it. You remember a time when your eyebrow had a slit through it. Now you don't have eyebrows. What a world.

"Getting rid of the sound doesn't mean you got rid of the danger."

"That can apply to a lot of things."

He manages the toaster. He's shaking his head and smiling a smile that makes you smile. "Tell me about your nightmares," he says, his smile faint, his hand gripping the slice of bread you stuck in there and pretended you didn't so you had an excuse to fire your gun at the fire alarm. You knew the batteries were running low. You knew it was going to start beeping any day now. You also knew you could have sent him to the dollar store to pick up some new ones. But you wanted to shoot your gun.

"Double-entendre intended."

"Excuse me?"

"I hope you're wearing your white pants," you say, and he laughs, goes, "Yeah?" And you say, "Yeah," and he says, " _Yeah_."

He says, "Maybe your nightmares don't matter."

One step at a time, you drag your eyes down his body as you watch him sit back down in the seat across from you. The slice of burnt toast resides in his hand, crumbs on his thighs, crumbs on the table. He glances your way, chews on the inside of his cheek, and says, "I think there are far more important things than what may be in your nightmares."

You smile. He smiles.

And you say, "Cue 'Africa' by Toto."

And he says, "I don't think we're going to get our security deposit back."

*

You're going down the highway with him in the driver's seat. You wanted to drive. You got behind the wheel, honked the horn, and he lifted you and placed you in the passenger seat with no difficulty at all. He even snapped in your seatbelt. He patted your thigh.

You had hearts in your eyes and could only utter, "Beep, beep," while nodding toward the horn.

"Beep, beep," he agreed, and honked the horn.

So, you two are going down the highway. "Africa" by Toto is on the radio. Along with the hearts in your eyes, you keep watch of any flashing lights in the rear-view mirror, but he's a careful driver. You hate that. You want adrenaline. You want to hear screaming.

You scream. He isn't bothered. He pats your thigh again.

You scream again. That's how you sing the songs on the radio. His hand is still on your thigh.

There's no one else on the road because it's three in the morning. It's three in the morning, and along with the hearts in your eyes, there's fire. Fire burns, and it doesn't quench no matter how many times you try to shut your eyes and  _sleep_. "I think so," you told him. You thought you could go back to sleep. You told him that, and he watched you throw the blankets to the floor, tuck your gun into the back of your sweatpants, and leap into the kitchen.

Labeling yourself a potential early bird shouldn't backfire like this. You wanted this, but you didn't want this—not today. You didn't want it today. The dark circles under his eyes didn't want this today either. He looks at you, though, and those eyeballs resting in his sockets hold no regret as he drives down the highway and listens to you scream the lyrics to one of the best songs ever known to humankind.

You want this to be easy.

He says, "Just tell me where to go."

So, you say, "Faster," and he goes faster.

You say, "Pull over," and so, he pulls over.

Your throat hurts. Elbow to the rolled-down window, fingers to your mouth, eyes vacant and stained and with all the rest of the clichés in the world, you sit there. With his hand on your thigh, you sit there. With the radio humming and him humming with it, you sit there.

"I don't want to mess this up," you mumble.

"You've done everything but," he says.

It's okay to cry.

Another whisper, you tell him, "It's gonna take a lot to take me away from you."

When he kisses you, his hands cradle your face. When he kisses you, his thumbs wipe the tears from your cheeks. When he kisses you, he kisses you and kisses you.

"No one's around." He's growling, deep, in his throat, and it makes you warm all over, from the baseball cap on your head to the crocs on your feet. "We can punch a hole through the backseat."

"Car sex gives me performance anxiety."

"That's adorable. Tell me what to do."

So, you say, "Faster," and he doesn't disappoint.

*

"I think one of my favorite memes is when there's, like, a picture of a dog paw, and the caption says, 'My hands look like this so hers can look like this.'"

"Is there something wrong with my hands?"

"No."

"I thought your favorite meme was something about loss?"

"It is—and don't pronounce 'meme' like that."

"Meme," he muses.

You smile.

"God, you're hot," he sighs, and you love the way he says that. You love it so much.

"Keep driving."

"I've noticed we've been going in circles."

"I've noticed this section is mostly dialogue."

"Where are we going?"

Your stomach hurts. You hug your knees. "I don't know."

*

He takes the incentive and drives to a park. It's not open; the sign out front says the hours of operation go from seven in the morning to fuck you o'clock. Someone's tried scrubbing the red ink from the sign. Rightfully so—"fuck you o'clock" isn't that creative.

The steering wheel bears his thumbs drumming across nine and three. He tilts his head from side to side, slow, to the beat of the song. It's "Come On Eileen" now. He says, "Too-ra-loo-ra," and you say, "Too-ra-loo-rye-aye."

"Let's take a walk," he says, then. Declining his offer is unwise, unfathomable to the nth degree, and unusual considering your heart moves faster than your head. If someone were to strap you in and measure your heart rate, it wouldn't be a surprise to anyone to find it'd be beating in time with his own heart. The notion is meant to be romantic, as is customary in romances, and you think it  _might_  be romantic if an uneven heart rate wasn't a sign of a serious health condition. You don't care. You can't die—not really.

"Full circle," you say.

He squeezes your hand. "What was that?"

"I'll tell you someday."

Your walk in the park turns into a slight jog. You do this because your crocs are squeaking, and they make more noise when you run. He's smiling and shaking his head at each squeak, so that's why you start to run. You want to have an excuse as to why you're tripping over a trash can. "Watch where you're going," he may say. "Eyes on the prize," he may say, because he's old and totally in love with you, and you're into that, and you'll toss your head back and laugh and say, "Oh, they are."

This conversation plays in your head with excellent execution. Little cherubs with ribbons and doves within reach flutter in sight and form a halo around his head. It's perfect. It's perfect, and you hardly notice your plan and the conversation crumbles before you because, instead of allowing yourself to fall into a trash can or a fence post or whatever vertical object in your path, he intervenes. He pulls you by the arm, says, "Watch out," and your heart's faster than your head again. You're leaping onto him, onto his back, and this is perfect, too. You're clinging to him, your arms around his neck, your thighs hugging his waist, and you love him. You love him.

"You okay?" he asks.

You nod your head against his head.

This is what he does. When you do something stupid, he's there. Even when you're lying in bed and considering jumping from the window, he loops you in. You hate it a little. You want to think about how short-lived the relief from your nightmares would be if you ran toward the window and jumped. He'd come get you. He'd carry you bridal style back to bed. It would almost make the excruciating pain that comes with breaking your neck and spine worth it to have him carry you like that.

But you never jumped. It was just a thought.

Because this is what he does. He knows you.

"Take me somewhere," you whisper into his ear, and lick a stripe along the cartilage.

He bats away your face.

You kiss each of his knuckles.

"Where do you want to go?"

It's almost four thirty in the morning, and you say, "Do you want to build a snowman?"

He holds the backs of your knees. He smiles. "All right."


End file.
